Bleed It Out
by SplatDragon
Summary: Whumptober2019: Arthur had meant well. Hosea and Dutch had been so stressed, and his wound didn't seem so bad. How could he have known that it wouldn't stop bleeding? That it would refuse to clot? That, in the end, he'd only put more weight on their shoulders-quite literally.


Well, that could've gone better.

Honestly, by now, that could be their motto. Put it on their damn gravestones.

"What the hell happened?"

Arthur winced—Dutch sounded _pissed_. It hadn't been his fault that the law had found them so fast but, even still, he fought the urge to bow his head and apologize. How Dutch always managed to do that, he'd never know.

"The law should've been hours away," Hosea groused, shaking his head as he shoved what they'd managed to steal before being ambushed into his saddlebag.

Arthur, wisely, held his tongue.

He trotted a handful of paces behind the pair, watching their backs. He was the best at firing over his shoulder without having to aim, so it was only natural that he'd ride at the back—Arthur never questioned it, it just made sense.

Besides, he liked the privacy. While Dutch and Hosea bickered (Dutch was angry, Hosea more frustrated, trying to figure out what had gone wrong), he carefully unbuttoned his duster, then his shirt. Peeling it away from his skin _hurt_, clotting blood clinging to the fabric, but he needed to take a look at his wound.

It was the damn lawmen's fault. They distracted him long enough for the man he'd been standing near to pull a knife, stab it deep in his chest. Hosea had been too far away, Dutch too preoccupied, to hear him yell, and as far as he could tell they thought he'd fired his gun at the law.

But they were so stressed, the day had already been such a mess, he didn't want to bother them with anything more. So he sucked his teeth, prodding at the wound, grabbing his handkerchief and giving it a quick wipe-over in case any dirt had gotten in it when he'd had to jump off of the train. Blood pooled down onto his jeans, and he hurried to wipe it before it could show, wishing his jeans were darker, that he had one of their first-aid kits.

He'd just have to stitch it up back at camp, though. Stitching on a horse would be impossible, and he'd never be able to hold his tongue. The wound didn't seem to be too bad, was already clotting, so he pressed the handkerchief against it, buttoned his shirt and his duster, then pressed his arm there to hold it in place, glad that it was close enough to his hip that he could rest his hand at the ready near his gun and press his forearm against the wound.

They rode, and they rode, and they rode.

They'd boarded the train when it was miles from their camp, not wanting to draw too much attention to themselves. They loved their camp, liked where it was at, liked the opportunities nearby, and liked the people, too. So as long as they kept their faces covered, kept their 'work' well away from camp, then they'd be safe.

But it led to a long, long ride back home.

Dutch and Hosea had stopped bickering, were talking, about… about… well, he didn't know what. His head was beginning to throb, a dull pain that began at his temples then radiated out everywhere, and he ground his teeth, focusing on anything else. He set the reins down on the saddle-horn for a moment, reaching for his handkerchief with a free hand, frowning when he didn't find one sticking out of his pocket.

_'Where is it?' _

He always carried a handkerchief on him. Guiding his mare with his knees, he dug through his pockets, through his satchel, and his horse's saddlebags. "Lose something, son?"

He raised his head, Hosea staring back at him with his eyebrow raised, shook his head and clenched his eyes as the world swam around him, grit his teeth, stomach churning, "Think… think I lost my handkerchief when we jumped from the train."

Hosea chuckled, "Gonna lose your head if you're not careful. I have a spare back at camp you can use." he turned his attention back to the road when Dutch said his name, Arthur reaching up to wipe away the sweat that was beginning to bead on his forehead.

They rode on, and despite how hard he tried Arthur had no idea where they were. He should have known the name of that lake, he felt, that cabin and that abandoned town, places he'd seen before, that Dutch and Hosea had drilled into his head so he would know where to meet them if they got separated. But the more he looked, the more confused he got, the more they swam and danced in his vision. So he dropped his gaze back down to his mare's neck, where his free hand weakly held the reins, letting her lead herself as she followed Dutch's stallion and Hosea's gelding.

He panted in the heat, reaching up again and again to wipe away his sweat, wondering where his handkerchief had gone—hadn't he had it after fleeing the train? He'd done… something with it, what had that been? Or… no, he'd lost it jumping, had he done whatever it was before getting on the train? Arthur's heart thrummed in his ears, and he wondered how Dutch and Hosea were able to ride for so long in this heat.

_"Dutch," _he croaked, voice wobbling, the word more a wheeze barely rattling over his tongue.

_"Hosea," _he tried again, blinking, spots dancing at the sides of his vision.

Arthur fumbled the reins, feeling them slip from clumsy fingers, draping over the sides of her neck. He knew he needed to pick them up, wrap them around the saddle-horn at least, before they tripped her, before she stepped on them and broke a leg or broke her neck, but found himself just staring, blinking at the reins.

"Arthur?"

Christ, it was hot.

"Arthur, son, you alright?"

Since when could her neck snake like that?

"Arthur?"

Oh, he was falling. That was bad.

"Dutch, catch him!"


End file.
